


Prince Johnston

by Daphne_Fredriksen



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Language, race relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 16:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Fredriksen/pseuds/Daphne_Fredriksen
Summary: This story is based on characters from my short novel "Those Roadhouse Blues" and was originally going to be a chapter in it.  I decided I like it better as its own vignette.





	Prince Johnston

John Smith was in Montana, on the border between the Reich and the Neutral Zone, on a special assignment. He was out by Park City, scouting the area, and not having a particularly good day of it. So he sat in his car, eating the olive-and-cheese sandwiches Daphne had made for him.

It was a funny thing, his finding Daphne. To blend in with the locals, he’d posed as a salesman from Chicago, and started to going to the local roadhouse. Perhaps he drank a little too much whiskey, but to his delight they had live music, with “The Luscious Daphne Leigh” as their headliner. It kept him going back.

She didn’t sing the type of music that was in New York these days, that’s for sure. It was a sort of pop music, but not the chirpy bubblegum stuff that seeped from family picnics or was found playing in middle-class neighborhoods. It was more sophisticated, like the music before and during the war. Hints of jazz, too, which was almost _verboten_ in the Greater Reich, due to the style and origins of "that music”. But John found he liked her swing-tunes all the same. It reminded him of more carefree days.

He opened his thermos and poured some coffee. To be honest, he liked Daphne herself, loved her mix of sweetness & spunk. Oh, he’d find Helen, eventually, but ‘til then, it was nice having a friend his age - and out here he decided it didn’t matter if he was friends with a woman. She was much-needed balm to his soul.

The drizzle and occasional showers that had plagued his scouting expedition continued. He decided to head back into town. He’d stop at the roadhouse and surprise her; they seldom saw each other during the day.  
When he got there, Daphne was walking around, talking and arguing at the Emcee.

“C’mon, let’s try this new set out on the crowd,” she said. To emphasize her point she shook a blue velvet dress in his face – very demure and romantic, not like her usual stage outfits.

The emcee grunted. “Looks purty ritzy… not the kinda thing ya wanna spill beer on.”

“I a’n’t sloppy; I don’t spill beer.” She was miffed.

“No, but a patron might, an’ by the way, that’s what we need more of… you _interactin’_ wit’ the patrons. Let’s get likker sales up! You cozy up to the guys, they drink more booze!”

“Huh! You make it sound like I’m some kinda escort, not a jazz singer.”

Daphne’s musicians – John knew them to be respectable negroes – looked warily at the interaction. Washboard Jones, in particular, looked concerned . He led the band, and was a fine trumpet player on his own, doing solos to “spell” Daphne when she needed a break in the set.

But as a colored man, he didn’t dare sass a white man, even in the Neutral Zone.

The Emcee put a toothpick in his mouth and chewed it awhile. “Yeh, well, it’s _all_ entertainment, and some kinds is worth more to the bottom line.” He eyed her buttocks pointedly.

John stepped forward. “Hey!” he said. His voice was soft, but he threw a bit of menace into it. “I come here nights, and I like the singer just fine! Why don’t you let her be? Let make her own decisions. You pay _her_ to be the artist, don’t you?”

The Emcee chewed. He recognized the salesman, all right, and knew he was getting his money’s worth from the stiff. “Yeh... Alright. Just _some_ people gotta remember whose doin’ the payin’. “ He loped off the stage to the back office, in a sour mood.

“Davie!” Daphne went up and hugged him. “That Emcee has some ideas... didn’t you come in the nick of time! ”

“Hmph. Yeah, didn’t he?” mumbled Wash.

“Excuse me?” What had he done to get such a reaction from the trumpet boy?

The trumpet player fiddled with the valves of his horn. “I wuz just thinking how handy it wuz, sir, that you come when you did. Don’ know what she’s gonna do when she don’t have you around.”

“She would have managed fine. But a gentleman’s got to do what he’s got to do, boy.”

Wash slapped his hand on the stage. “You, _Salesman_ , whatcha talkin’ _gentleman_ for? ‘Nother thing - don’t go callin’ me ‘boy’ .”

Smith was taken aback. Who was this colored man, to sass him?

“I meant nothing by it. But I won’t be dictated to.”

“Guys… cool it…” intervened Daphne.

Wash waved her off. “It’s ok, it’s cool. But Iemme talk straight! Look, Mister Big City Salesman, I ap-pre-ciate you stickin’ up for her and all, but… lets jus’ let us take care of ourselves!  Fer for some of us, this here’s the end of the line, and I a’n’t about to go pressin’ my luck. Nor havin’ you press it, neither.”

John was silent for a moment. “Not my intent. But there’s other bars for you guys, and her too… if you have talent…”

The negro looked straight at him for a long time; John had the feeling he had seen him before. He thought back; he tried to remember things before the War.

Finally, the negro shrugged his shoulders and let out a harsh chuckle. “Huh. I got talent. I got black skin, too! You think you can take me back to Chicago wit’ you an’ I can get a job?”

Smith looked away. The colored player continued. “You think I can just ro-ooll into one of those cities and not get myself _lynched_? No sir! Not even if I was “Prince” Willis Johnston.”

John started. Prince Johnston had been one of the most popular jazz musicians back in the 30’s and early ‘40s; his music was everywhere. He’d been as popular with white audiences as with colored. Smith himself had seen him once - at the Apollo, when he’d been a younger man.

“… An’ a lot of us don’t trust the Pons in Seattle and San Francisco, neither. Naw, I’m stayin’ right here, in Billings, with a half-ass chance for safety. Your girlfrien’, too; better out here than those towns an’ their pawin’ Japs. They jus’ treat American gals like hos.“

“You’re… you’re Johnston? But… reports were… that he died in the Pacific Theater. The Japs bombed the USO club on Oahu where you were playing.”

“Yeh, heh, they did…” the negro grinned, and played a few bars of “Starlit Bay,” his old signature piece. “And by the way, Sir, I did say ‘if’. “

Smith nodded. They understood each other. Johnston would keep an eye out to protect Daphne; and Smith would keep Prince Johnston’s secret.


End file.
